What an appalling surprise
by irisdouglasiana
Summary: Jack isn't a very patient person. But when it comes to Carter and Sousa? He'll wait. (for additional context, check out "Creative uses for avocados")


Jesus. Where _are_ they?

Jack's gone over the report four times already, underlined and re-underlined key parts, and contemplated drawing a mustache onto Wilkes' photo just for kicks. (He decided against it.) He's looked through every drawer in Sousa's desk—old receipts and horse racing tickets galore. If, like Jack, Sousa has a secret stash of whiskey tucked away somewhere, he can't find it. He's a bit disappointed that there's nothing in there that he could use to embarrass Sousa later; say, a picture of Carter or something along those lines. He's tinkered with all the junk on top of the desk. (Fine, the baseball signed by Gil Hodges is impressive.) The photo of Sousa in uniform is interesting; he's never seen that one before. He's smiling and waving in it. It can only be from a few years ago, but he looks much younger. War does tend to make one age faster.

Jack spins around in the chair for a little bit—Sousa's is more comfortable than his own; perhaps once he's back in New York he can get one like this—and checks his watch again. It's well after nine by now. He's been waiting almost forty five minutes and he's starting to think it might be time to give it up, but then from outside the office he hears Carter's voice and Sousa's unmistakable gait. He hastily grabs the report and props his feet up on the desk and looks up at them nonchalantly as they come in.

"Jack, what—" Sousa begins.

"—an appalling surprise," Carter finishes. (God, they complete each other's sentences now too?)

The look on their faces makes it all worth it.

* * *

Jack's approach to breaking and entering is usually pretty unsubtle, but he figures Stark would have some sort of alarm system in place—possibly a fairly nasty one—so it takes him a little more thought to get inside without tripping it. He knows Carter and Sousa must be here since he saw Sousa's car parked outside, and when he gets in he can hear their voices drifting up from the basement. He contemplates going down there to save time, but then he thinks it really would be better for them to come to him instead. Jack helps himself to a glass of Stark's bourbon—it's excellent; undoubtedly the most expensive he's ever had—and settles into one of the chairs in the living room to wait.

He spends some time looking through Carter's file again. It's enough, but since it's so heavily redacted there isn't actually that much to read. He checks his watch—it's been twenty minutes already—and finishes his bourbon while thinking up a good line to say to Carter and Sousa for when they do come by.

It doesn't take much for Jack to get bored. He gets up and wanders around the living room for a bit, examines all the cabinets in Stark's kitchen (the liquor selection is incredible), and contemplates opening a sealed glass container with a single avocado inside that is labeled _do not open!_ in bold letters. He's about to open it when he hears footsteps, so he hurries back to his chair and picks up the file.

Carter, Sousa, and Jarvis stop in their tracks when they see him. Jack almost can't keep a straight face. "Look at the three of you," he says. "Larry, Curly, could you give me a moment? I need to have a word with Moe."

He _loves_ this part of the job.

* * *

 _Later that night…_

Back at the hotel room, Jack sets aside the alarming note and holds up the glass container with the avocado that he took from Stark's kitchen. It looks perfectly normal to him. He shrugs and opens it slowly, just in case, but nothing happens. He's starting to think this must be some sort of joke. He picks up the avocado, gives it a squeeze, and quickly discovers why that was a bad idea.

 _Pop._

* * *

Trouble is, Carter and Sousa start catching on.

After that nasty business with getting shot and a long convalescence in California, Jack is back in New York and freezing his ass off. He'd been itching to get home just a few months ago, but now as the days get shorter and the sidewalks freeze over, he starts thinking about Carter and Sousa lying out on a beach somewhere sipping cocktails and he wonders what exactly was so bad about Los Angeles after all. _Oh, right. A bullet to the chest._

The switchboard ladies give him a _look_ but don't say anything beyond the usual good mornings when Jack comes in from the cold, leaving a trail of mud and slush behind him. Even with the furnace going full blast, even wrapped up in a dozen layers, he can't seem to get warm. He's still shivering when he opens his office door. Then he's tempted to close it and turn around and go back the way he came.

Carter is sitting with her feet propped up on his desk, examining the label on the bottle of whiskey from his private stash. On the other side of the desk, Sousa is reading the paper. He checks his watch as Jack comes in. "Late breakfast?"

Jack doesn't even have anything witty prepared to say in response. He steps inside and snatches the bottle out of Carter's hand—well, he tries to. Her grip is surprisingly strong and he decides maybe it would be better if she kept it.

"Little early to be drinking, Marge," he remarks. "I assume there's a reason for this?"

"Merry Christmas Eve to you too," Carter says. "You're right, however. This is not purely a social visit. We have business to discuss."

Jack sighs and hangs up his scarf. The switchboard ladies _knew_ about this, each and every one of them. He's going to have a nice long chat with them later.

Sousa's got that smug little grin on his face. "What, didn't you miss us?"

Well, okay. Maybe a _little_. Very, very, _very_ little.


End file.
